


I know you fear the wounds of time

by justhockey



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Boys In Love, But It Would Be Happy, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Don’t Like Sad, M/M, Soft Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justhockey/pseuds/justhockey
Summary: They can not have him. The gods and the kings and everyone in between. Achilles is not theirs to take.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 170





	I know you fear the wounds of time

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song _Of Crows and Crowns_ by Dustin Kensrue.

War is what the world says Achilles was born for. They say it is what the gods put him on this earth for, and why they gave him the talents that they did.

Patroclus disagrees. 

He knows Achilles is strong and fast and brave, knows the prophecy that he is destined to be the greatest warrior this world has seen. He is destined for a greatness men can only dream of. 

But the world does not know Achilles like Patroclus does. It has not seen him soft and gentle in the early morning glow like Patroclus has. It hasn’t seen his laughter or the way the skin beside his eyes crinkles like satin when he smiles. It hasn’t seen the tender way he touches Patroclus in the glow of the moonlight, with the stars as their only witness. 

No. They can not have him. The gods and the kings and everyone in between. Achilles is not theirs to take. 

The call of wars and battles to be won are nothing but a distant murmur, a whisper like a ghost up on Mount Pelion. They are too far below Patroclus and Achilles to worry them so much, now, yet both of them know. They know that Pelion provides them with a shield from the rest of the world. They also know that one day that shield will fall, their call to war will come and the most noble of kings will wish for Achilles to fight for them. 

They lie by the river, the mid afternoon sun trickling through the leaves above them. It casts dancing shadows over Achilles’ back as Patroclus traces his fingers down the ridges of his spine. He presses his lips to Achilles’ shoulder and breathes deeply. He doesn’t have to say it but he’s sure Achilles knows anyway. 

_You are mine._

Chiron had warned them, warned Achilles, that kings would ask for him to fight their wars, and asked what he would say when they did. _I do not know_ still echoes in Patroclus’ head. He hopes the answer is different now, hopes that when they come, and they will, that Achilles will say no. 

He hopes, but he is not certain. For Achilles is brave and selfless, though he is barely even a man yet, and he does what he thinks is right. 

He kisses Achilles’ shoulder again. 

_I will follow you anywhere._

And he knows that to follow Achilles into war would likely be a death sentence, that Patroclus is but a shadow of the warrior that Achilles is, yet he can not imagine doing anything else. 

The mere thought of being parted from Achilles brings a sudden, bone-deep ache to Patroclus, and he shifts closer to Achilles on the soft grass beneath them. No, he can not be parted from his love. The thought of death finding him out in battle is much less fearsome than the thought of Achilles not returning to him. Just the idea of Achilles’ death makes Patroclus feel as if he is dying himself. 

So he will follow if he must, he would follow Achilles into battle, to the caves under the sea where his mother dwells, to the ends of the earth. Anywhere. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Achilles muses, his voice slow and syrupy. 

Patroclus is not looking at his face but he knows he is smiling as he speaks. It is something Achilles has teased him for since they were just boys, his deep thoughts and worries, that back then were nothing but an abstract concept to Achilles, who had never had to worry before. He knows that is different now, that Achilles has much to be concerned for, but still, he is as light and joyous as ever. 

“I’m thinking of how much I love you,” Patroclus replies, turning his head to admire the smile he knew Achilles would be wearing. 

Achilles hums. “Then you may think aloud, please,” he teases, eyes glinting like the sun on the river they lie beside. 

“I love you,” Patroclus breathes as he runs the tip of his nose along Achilles’. 

The answering smile he gets is the sun, but more. He doesn’t know if anything in this life exists that is brighter than the sun, but if it does he is sure that it is Achilles’ smile. 

“I like hearing that,” he whispers in reply.

His closed eyes are an invitation, and Patroclus kisses his eyelids so softly Achilles barely even feels it, though his heart knows, and aches for more. Always, always more from Patroclus, whatever he will give him. 

“And I love you,” Achilles says. 

Patroclus thinks the splendour of Elysium would pale in comparison to this, getting to hold Achilles in his arms and love him and love him and love him. 

He thinks maybe he should apologise to the Gods for believing anything could be more beautiful than the paradise they created, but the apology would be hollow. He would not mean it. For he knows in his heart that not even Aphrodite is more beautiful than the boy before him, who looks like he has been kissed by sunlight on even the darkest of days. Nothing is more beautiful than the love which crackles between them like an open flame. 

“You’re doing it again,” Achilles says, his voice almost too loud in the silence that stretches for miles across the mountain. 

“Doing what?” Patroclus asks. 

“Drifting,” Achilles replies, shifting gracefully so he lays on his side, “come back to me.” 

His hand reaches out to cup Patroclus’ chin, tilting his head so he is looking deep into Achilles’ eyes. 

“I’d never go anywhere, not without you,” Patroclus promises. 

Achilles smiles again, and it feels like Patroclus earned it. He kisses it from his lips slowly, and it’s as if time slows around them. Like Kronos himself takes pity on them and allows seconds to last minutes, minutes to last hours. 

Achilles tastes like the figs they had eaten for breakfast and Patroclus is dizzy from the way their tongues dance together. He thinks perhaps he could die like this, would like to die like this even, with every one of his senses so overwhelmed with Achilles that it feels like he is drowning in him. 

Of all the things Patroclus has found on Pelion, surgery and music and hunting and cooking, Achilles is his favourite. Down in Phthia, at the castle they used to call home, Patroclus thought he had known Achilles. But up in the crisp mountain air, among the leaves and the animals and the calm, he had gotten to know a different Achilles, and this one he loves with his whole being. 

“Tell me again,” Achilles murmurs against Patroclus’ open mouth. 

“I love you.”

A kiss to his lips.

“I love you.”

Another to his jaw. 

“I love you.”

To the hollow of his throat. 

Patroclus would never tire of saying it, and he would never tire of hearing it in return, for every single moment they got together felt like a gift from the Gods. They had no way of knowing when the Gods would decide to stop providing, when they would instead try to take and take until Patroclus and Achilles had nothing more to give. 

So he whispers it again, and then Achilles says it back as his lips trail a line down Patroclus’ throat and chest, stopping just above his heart. Then he looks up at him, Achilles’ golden curls framing his face so exquisitely, and his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. There is a question behind his eyes, and though he does not speak Patroclus knows what he is asking. 

“It’s yours,” Patroclus promises as his hand brushes through Achilles’ hair, “it will always be yours.”

Achilles kisses the skin above Patroclus’ heart, and they both ignore the tears that fall onto his chest as Achilles rests his head there, breathing slowly as if trying to drink in Patroclus. They both know this time is limited, they can feel it in the air as it grows thicker around them. It has been doing so for weeks. 

Patroclus hurts somewhere deep inside, that Achilles has to know pain like this. He wishes he could it take it from him, would bear the ache a thousand times over if it meant Achilles wouldn’t have to feel it for another second. He feels blessed to be loved like this, so tenderly, so completely that the thought of being parted causes such sorrow. He’s even luckier that he, once a prince who was exiled in disgrace, gets to have this with Achilles. But he would sacrifice it all to keep Achilles from pain, and to keep him out of the reach of greedy kings who wish to use his body for their gain.

“Come here,” he whispers, “come to me.”

And of course Achilles goes, because he too would follow Patroclus anywhere that he asked of him. 

Patroclus guides Achilles up from where he’s resting his head over his heart, pulls him back down so Achilles is lay on top of him. Patroclus wraps his arms, strong and muscled from their years on the mountain, around Achilles and holds on tightly, as if he’s afraid he may slip away from him. 

“I don’t want this,” Achilles tells him. 

When he was a boy, Patroclus thought that to be a God would be the greatest blessing of all. He had never imagined it possible that one day he would lie with a demigod who did not want his power, who saw the prospect of immortality not as something to strive for, but as something to fear. But as he holds his dear Achilles in his arms, he, too, fears the powers that he should idolise, for they are the very thing that could take Achilles from him. 

Patroclus wants nothing more than to take this burden off of Achilles’ shoulders, but that is not something he can do. So he holds onto him, tight, and rubs his fingers into the muscles there, at least hoping to ease the weight of it even slightly. 

It’s the middle of summer and the sun is high in the sky when they hear it, the cry of a soldier’s trumpet. The shield of Mount Pelion crumbles around them as the trumpet sounds again, and Patroclus hates that the call of war sounds so lovely. They jump up, Achilles’ hand on the hunting knife in his pocket as the soldier calls out his name. 

They have come for him. 

_No._

Achilles is afraid, the look on his face is too easy to read. Patroclus knows he is not afraid to fight, he is certain to win, but he is afraid of losing this, _them_. 

_They will wish for you to fight their wars, what will you answer?_

Achilles was not made for this, for war. He was made to splash in the river and bathe under the trees. He was made to hold Patroclus, and be held by him. He was made for love and love and love, nothing more. 

Patroclus takes his hand. 

_They can not have you._


End file.
